


Shot of Pure Gold

by gezurak



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Doctor Harry, Doctor/Patient, M/M, Producer Louis, Sick Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gezurak/pseuds/gezurak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The arrival of spring makes Louis feel like Dr. Frankenstein - "it's alive" coming first as a whisper, then a near hysterical shout. Except instead of one rather useless monster, it's hundreds of (admittedly, not so) useless monsters as London's plant life awakens from a winter of dormancy and attacks him with pollen. </p>
<p>Or, Louis has hay fever and Harry is an immunologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shot of Pure Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calipta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calipta/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: Louis has a tendency to stay indoors all spring because of his hay fever and Harry is his local doctor who cures him.
> 
> I really, really liked this prompt. I hadn't seen anything really like it before and it made me excited, so here we are. 
> 
> Shout out to L who listened to me think out loud when deciding how this should go, and gracefully accepting the fact that me pinch-hitting this exhchange would make her birthday fic late. 
> 
> Many many thanks to Anna for reading this over. Any mistakes are thus mine. 
> 
> Title from MAX's Never Gonna Let You Go
> 
> calipta, I hope you like this, love!

The arrival of spring makes Louis feel like Dr. Frankenstein - "it's alive" coming first as a whisper, then a near hysterical shout. Except instead of one rather useless monster, it's hundreds of (admittedly, not so) useless monsters as London's plant life awakens from a winter of dormancy and attacks him with pollen.

It starts simply enough - a tickle in the back of his throat, the occasional sneeze when a particularly gusty wind blows by at the tail end of winter. But by the time the temperature has risen and everything has turned green again, it’s watery eyes and uncontrollable sneezing fits that render him miserable.

Hay fever is the worst.

Especially when it interferes with all of the things Louis loves so very much, like playing football, and going to the park with Liam and Loki, and Zayn’s infamous rooftop parties on the first warm nights of May.

And the worst bit is - nothing helps.

At twenty-six, he’s tried everything there is to try, really. All of the medications available on the market. Nope. Saline sprays up his nose. Nice try. Neti pots, humidifiers, even a face mask when he was seventeen and his job required him to be outdoors often. Nothing he does can stop the awful reaction of his sinuses to anything that grows.

So he’s taken to keeping indoors as much as possible during spring, only leaving his flat to go to work and when he absolutely must. Groceries can be delivered, so can takeaway when he can’t be arsed to cook, and for the most part his friends don’t mind hanging round his instead of going out.

He’ll take his little victories.

It’s a Thursday in mid-April - his night to cook and have the others over - and Zayn is already sitting at the kitchen table marking papers when Louis arrives home from work. Louis suspects he’s been there since school let out, judging by the row of empty ginger ale cans beside him and distance essays have been strewn across the wooden surface.

“Please, remind me why I assigned Chaucer,” Zayn groans, leaning back in his seat to push his glasses up onto the top of his head and rub his eyes.

“Because you can’t teach the future of England about English literature without teaching them about the father of English literature,” Louis replies obediently. He drops his satchel onto the armchair he’s designated for such a purpose and kicks his shoes off. Then, he pauses to take a deep breath of clean air and exhales through his nose the best he can, willing the congestion to go away. “And you love Chaucer.”

“These comparisons of the Friar and the Summoner are making me rethink that,” Zayn laments.

Louis snorts and ruffles Zayn’s hair on his way into the kitchen.

“They can’t be that bad.”

“Calliope went off on a tangent comparing the Church to the current government, and while I’m sure many other teachers would appreciate her ideas and creativity, I just wanted them to do the bloody assignment as proposed.”

Zayn lets himself slump back into marking position and pushes his glasses down his nose again to peer at Louis as he roots through the drawer to the right of the sink.

“How’re you feeling? News said pollen counts were mild today.”

“Not as bad as I could be,” Louis admits, fingers finally closing around the foil punch pack of hay fever tablets. His eyes itch and his nose is stuffy, but he’s not watery or runny so it really could be far worse, like it is when the pollen count is higher.

He punches a pill out and swallows it dry before tossing the pack back into the drawer and closing it with his hip.

They lapse into easy silence then, Zayn returning to marking and Louis taking ingredients out to prepare dinner. He’s been thinking about a stir fry since mid-afternoon when he was hunched over the soundboard tracking the last bits of a new song to send off to the publisher.

Liam arrives with Loki in tow shortly after, their arrival announced by the Alaskan klee kai bounding into the kitchen to clamber onto Zayn’s lap before Liam’s even shut the front door. Zayn pushes his chair back a bit to let Loki settle more comfortably and coos down at the dog with a grin.

“Hiya, Payno,” Louis greets when Liam appears in the kitchen a few moments later.

“Hiya, Tommo,” Liam returns and presses a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head, scratching at Loki’s ears. “Hi, babe.”

Louis makes a fake vomiting noise and nearly chokes on the phlegm in his throat. He devolves into a coughing fit, hands braced on the edge of the counter as he hunches over the sink. If his eyes and nose weren’t went before, they certainly are now. Tears make their way down his cheeks and he wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, sputtering a final time before hacking into the sink. With a scrunched nose, he hits the tap to clean the sink, drawing a ragged breath in.

Liam helpfully thumps him on the back and passes over a tea towel.

“Alright, mate?”

Louis nods, using the towel to clean his face up.

“Peachy.”

“That’s what you get for making fun of us,” Zayn sing songs.

Louis gives him the finger.

 

\--

 

By the next Wednesday, the BBC’s morning reports state the pollen count is high and that severe allergy sufferers should stay indoors if at all possible. There are also a slew of allergy related tips Louis has heard a hundred times before that he can verify don’t work all that well. Plastic pillow cases only work when the crinkling noise they make doesn’t keep you up all night and the subsequent exhaustion doesn’t make you more prone to illness.

He leaves his flat earlier than he normally would to head off the crowds of London commuters that stir up the air and with it the pollen, slipping onto the Tube by half six.

It’s the third day of a two week long session studio session with a band he’s never worked with before, a group of lads who call themselves The Pastel. They’re a quiet group, another set Simon found somewhere or another that has absolutely no experience, but they’re eager to learn. With as sick as Louis feels, he couldn’t ask for a better band to be in studio with. He prefers the new bands to the more established ones anyway - they’re more receptive to his ideas and he’s noticed a correlation between the number of hit singles a band has recorded and the amount of times he wants to knock them  on their arses and tell them to get their shit together.

Simon’s got them booked at Grotto Studios, and the hour long commute gives Louis time to pop into the Costa around the corner from the studio to get a cup of tea before he’s due in at eight. He checks the time on his phone as he exits the Tube station and power walks down to Costa holding his breath. If he doesn’t breathe the pollen can’t get in and if the pollen can’t get in he won’t feel like he’s dying.

It’s a nice thought. Except power walking requires breathing and Louis’ wheezing from the lack of oxygen and sudden congestion by the time he enters the shop.

He nabs a table in the corner, far from the door, and nurses his tea long enough to get clean air back into his system again. He can barely breathe through his nose and his eyes itch, but he sends up a prayer to whatever higher powers that might exist that after an hour so in the studio he can function like a normal human again. 

The main building is unlocked and he slips down to studio B. He can’t help the fit of sneezing that comes over him as he enters, sinuses clearing just enough to be affected by the overly cool air of the large room.

It’s one, two, three, then six. He holds his tea as far away from his body as he can as he doubles over and shakes with the force of the sneezing.

Louis straightens with a groan when it’s over, fishing a tissue out of his satchel with his free hand to blow his nose. Now his throat hurts from the force and his eyes are full on watering and what a great start to the morning.

“Y’alright there?”

Louis nods and shoots a disgruntled look to Niall, one of the resident audio engineers, where he sits in his chair at the sound board in front of the booth.

“Sure you’ve not got a cold or summat?”

Louis nods again as he unhooks his satchel from over his shoulder and drops onto the sofa with it beside him.

As the morning goes on, Louis’ symptoms lessen until he can mostly breathe with only the occasional sneeze. It’s hard to focus on the task at hand when he feels so awful but he manages. He’s used to it. Luckily neither the band nor Niall say anything when their producer has to excuse himself into the corridor when he can’t stop coughing on the phlegm in his throat.

They take a short break from tracking a guitar riff in mid-afternoon  and Louis digs into his satchel for a pack of hay fever tablets.

“You’ve got hay fever mate?” Niall asks as he slouches in his seat, hands clasped over his stomach. “That’s why you look like death?”

Louis washes a tablet down with one of the many water bottles around the room. He’s not entirely sure if it’s actually his, but it was the one closest to him and he doesn’t really give a shit.

“Unfortunately,” he sighs.

“You ever seen an allergist?”

Louis gives him a level look. Has he ever seen an allergist.

“Only like a dozen.”

“Me best mate’s an allergist,” Niall continues. “He grew up allergic to everything and had asthma. Was so bad he couldn’t leave the house and he had to be homeschooled for a while. But he went to uni and medical school and now he’s an allergist and treated himself and he’s fine.”

“Must be nice for him,” Louis says wryly.

Niall cocks an eyebrow.

“I could give you his number if you like.”

Louis hums and waves a dismissive hand.

“I’d need a referral from my GP.”

“He’s a private specialist.”

Louis scrunches his nose. He’s gone to private allergists, none of whom have done him any good. Sure they’d been a tad better than the NHS ones but he’s still here, still suffering.

“I’d still need a referral.”

He expects Niall to be exasperated with the arguing, but Niall’s been proving himself to be incredibly easy going over the last few days. He’s been patient when Louis asks the band to rerecord a vocal again and again, or if the mix isn’t quite to Louis’ standards and he wants to re mic the drum kit. Honestly he’s been one of the most patient engineers Louis has worked with, but has also called Louis out on his shit, something many others wouldn’t do to the producer.

“He doesn’t require one. I’ll tell him to expect your call and he’ll book you in.” Niall pauses and gives him a near pitying look. “Especially when I tell him how awful you look.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Cheers, mate. But I’m alright.”

Niall shrugs one shoulder and spins around to face the soundboard again as the band troops back into the room. The smell of cigarette smoke they carry in on their clothes sends Louis into another coughing fit, doubled over with his face tucked into his elbow.

When it finally subsides, he reemerges and wipes at the tears that have taken up residence at the corners of his eyes.

“Niall, what’s your mate’s number?” he says weakly.

Niall grins and fumbles his mobile from his pocket.

 

\--

 

At Niall’s instructions, Louis rings the London Centre for Immunology  on Thursday afternoon, stepping outside of the studio when they take a break from writing. It’s a private clinic that specialises in immunology and therapies to treat various immune disorders, similar to one he’s been referred to before. He can only hope it goes better this time. Even if he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

“Do you have a referral?” the receptionist asks after Louis’ stated he’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Styles.

Louis heaves out a sigh. Of course.

“No, but I was told he was expecting my call.”

There’s a long pause and Louis can hear the clack of computer keys from the other end of the line.

“What’s your name?”

“Louis. Tomlinson.”

Another pause.

“Ah. I see Dr. Styles was indeed expecting you. He has next Tuesday at 10am open due to a cancellation, if that works for you.”

“Yes,” Louis says instantly. He’ll have to call Simon and  beg off the studio later, but yes. “Tuesday is perfect.”

He provides the rest of his important information and the receptionist rattles off an address Louis knows he’ll never remember before ending the call, but that’s what Niall’s for he supposes.

 

\--

 

Tuesday Louis feels like he’s dying. Legitimately, honest to god dying. Despite having been indoors until 1 am yesterday when he’d left the studio, his sinuses are completely congested and the moment he opens his eyes he instantly regret it. They itch so badly and it only intensifies with contact to the cool air of his bedroom. Coupled with the throbbing of his head and inability to breathe, he wants to cry.

Instead, he groans and rolls over onto his side, willing some of the congestion to drain down so he can at least breathe out of one nostril.

Gravity, as all other parts of the earth, hates him and it offers no relief. After five minutes of willing gravity to switch allegiances, Louis hauls himself out of his bed and into the bathroom for his second hope - a scalding shower.

He perches on the edge of the counter as waits for the water to cool enough to not burn his skin, steam quickly filling the small room. He inhales the best he can, haltingly and painfully. The warm, humid air helps a bit and after a few moments he’s shedding his clothes and stepping into the shower.

By the time Louis’ washed and rinsed, he can almost breathe again. It’s enough for him to get dressed, pop a couple of hay fever tablets, and put just enough product in his hair to keep his fringe in place.

He’s allowed himself a lie in but doesn’t have much  time to spare, so he makes a cup of tea in a travel mug and sets off. Niall’d given him the address of the office and it’s not too far from his flat, quicker to walk than to take the tube or a cab

Louis takes a cab anyway.

He arrives at the appointed 9:45 and fills out the bit of paperwork the receptionist passes to him. The “Please list your allergy history” section is a mere six lines. He sighs and scrawls “see back of this sheet” before flipping the paper over and neatly writing out the dates and names of all the allergists he’s seen and treatments he’s tried.

He’s only just returned the paperwork to the receptionist when a nurse is calling him back.

She smiles warmly at him, her badge reading Leah, and holds the door open to the back part of the office.

“What brings you in today?” she asks as she directs him toward a triage area so she can take his vitals.

“Plants try to kill me,” Louis replies, as forlornly as he can manage.

Leah chuckles, securing the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“Hay fever really bad?”

He nods as the cuff inflates, squeezing his bicep and making him wince slightly.

“Well, Dr. Styles will sort you out,” she says with a cluck. “He’s one of the best.”

She takes his temperature, checks his height and weight, and then sets him up in an exam room  with another smile and a promise that the doctor will be in shortly.

Louis settles on the edge of the exam table and pulls out his mobile to text Zayn, not caring that his friend is currently teaching one of his groups of year twelves, the awful ones.

\- save me. it smells like a hospital in here.  

He opens up 2048 and swings his legs, the table far too high for his feet to touch the floor.

A few moments later there’s a soft knock at the door before it’s pushed open.

“Hi, Mr. Tomlinson, I’m Dr. Styles.”

Louis drags his eyes up from the screen of his mobile and immediately regrets the croaking noise that leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

Niall didn’t tell Louis his doctor mate was fit.

Because that’s exactly what Dr. Harry Styles is. He’s tall and lean with bright green eyes and long hair pulled back into a messy bun, and oh god he has dimples.

Louis is the biggest sucker for dimples, especially when on the face of someone Louis can only describe as one of - if not the - prettiest people he’s ever seen.

He’s in a doctor’s office, eyes itching and nose congested and he’s fucking hard in his jeans, turned on by the beautiful doctor he’s come to for help.  

This is Louis’ life.

At least he’s somewhat used to odd situations and recovers quickly, turning the croak into a cough, face turned to his shoulder,  and holding his hand out to shake.

“Sorry, phlegm,” he says politely, eyes widening apologetically. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Styles.”

“Niall said you had a nasty bout of hay fever,” Dr. Styles says sympathetically as he shake’s Louis’ offered hand.

It’s a very large hand, Louis notices. Not that his own are exceptionally small or anything, but Dr. Styles’ wraps around his own easily, surprisingly soft and warm.

“Oh? What else did Niall say?” Louis asks and wants to die instead of just feeling like it because what the fuck was that Louis. He’s immensely glad Zayn isn’t here because his best friend would be laughing uncontrollably and taking the piss out of him.

“That you get all pissy when anyone asks if you’re alright but you sneeze professionally,” Dr. Styles replies with a grin and sits down on the rolling stool in the room.

Louis makes what he’s sure is an attractive indignant sound.

“I am alright,” he insists.

Harry quirks an eyebrow and it’s so much like the skeptical expression Niall gives him that it makes Louis wonder how long they’ve known each other and who picked it up from who.

“The information you provided says otherwise, and here you are.”

Hot doctor has a point.

Dr. Styles listens patiently as he has Louis describe his symptoms and allergy history even though he’d provided it already, making notes in the exam room’s computer as Louis speaks.

“And you’ve never tried immunotherapy?” he asks when Louis’ finished.

Louis gives him a blank look.

“Allergy shots?”

Oh.

Louis shakes his head.

“Every doctor I’ve seen before said I wasn’t a good candidate.”

Dr. Styles frowns as he looks from the computer screen, to Louis, and back.

“Did they tell you why?”

“Nope,” Louis responds, lips popping around the word.

“Well, I don’t see anything in your medical history that says you’re not. I think it’s a good shot.”

There’s a brief pause before Dr. Styles is giggling to himself, lips pressed tightly together but dimples doubly as prominent now.

“Shot.”

Oh god the man is a dork and Louis is officially endeared.

“Do you really think so? Really, because if you get my hopes up at this point, that would be terribly unkind,” Louis sighs.

“I want to do a round of scratch testing -”

“I just had that done a few months ago,” Louis interrupts.

“I know. I have your file. But I want my own lab to perform it,” Dr. Styles explains. “I’ve found they do a much better job and if you seriously want to do this, I want to make sure it’s done properly.”

Louis makes a noise of affirmation and Dr. Styles grins.

He’s sent up to the in house lab where another kind nurse uses Greer picks to get tiny amounts of allergens under the skin of his arms, makes him wait for a half hour, and then documents any changes. Most of the tiny pricks itch terribly and more than a few have bubbled up from his body’s reaction to them. After snapping several photos and making her notes, she wipes his arms down with alcohol and gives him an antihistamine. Then he’s sent back to the receptionist to book a follow up appointment for next week.

 

\--

 

“So. I have your results.”

Louis lifts his eyebrows at Dr. Styles in front of him, a silent request to continue.

“If it’s a plant, you’re allergic to it.”

Tell Louis something he doesn’t know.

“But, I still think you’re a good candidate for immunotherapy,” Dr. Styles continues, tucking his hair behind his ear. It’s down today, the front pushed up and over his forehead and long waves brushing his shoulders. Louis can’t decide if it looks better up or down but either way is attractive. So attractive.

“When can I start?” Louis asks, heart fluttering in his chest.

If this works he could be symptom free eventually. Symptom. Free. For most people it takes two years to get to that point, but symptoms can begin to lessen after only two weeks of therapy, and god he hopes he’s only of the lucky ones.

“Today, if you like.”

Louis’ fingers are quick to roll up the short sleeves of his shirt and expose his triceps.

Dr. Styles laughs and hauls himself up from his stool.

“Come on then, follow me.”

He leads Louis back upstairs to a part of the lab Louis hasn’t seen yet, one wall lined with medical coolers and the other a row of chairs similar to those in the waiting room. There’s a desk at the corner and at it sits an older woman with her grey hair woven into a french braid over her shoulder.

“Hello, Harry,” she greets Dr. Styles with an affectionate smile. “Fresh meat?”

Dr. Styles’ eyes twinkle and Louis groans internally.

“This is Louis Tomlinson, Annie. We’re starting a round of immunotherapy set C,” Dr. Styles tells her and walks over to one of the large coolers to tug the door open. “Could you find his file in the system and print a label please?”

“Of course!” Annie says and turns to the computer in front of her, keys clacking away as she navigates the office’s record system.

Dr. Styles has pulled a small vial out and takes the label Annie offers once it prints, unpeeling it and placing it around the vial. He fishes two plastic wrapped hypodermic needles out of a drawer and beckons Louis over.

“We’re starting with just a tiny amount of allergens,” he explains and snaps latex gloves onto his hands. Louis takes a moment to marvel at how lovely they are again. “One shot in the back of each arm. You’ll need to stick around for a half hour just to make sure you don’t have a severe reaction, which I highly doubt you will, but it’s just a precaution. Then same thing, place, and time next week. And the week after that, for twelve weeks. Then every other week for three months, then once a month. Make sense?”

Louis swallows hard and nods, watching the other man as he tears open an alcohol swab. It’s cool against Louis’ skin and he can’t help but shiver, though he’s not sure if it’s the swab or the way Dr. Styles’ fingers graze his skin lightly.

Dr. Styles drops the swab into the bin and unwraps the needles, carefully measuring the clear liquid into them.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

It’s over in seconds, Dr. Style’s hands expertly moving over Louis’s skin to inject the contents of one needle into each tricep. Then he’s gently taping ice packs onto the back of Louis’ arms, helpfully provided by Annie.

“Alright, now you sit tight for a half hour,” Dr. Styles says, carefully replacing the vial in the cooler and snapping the gloves off. “I’ll be back to check on you, but Annie’s going to sit with you, okay?”

“Yep. Thanks, Dr. Styles,” Louis says, the cold of the ice packs already beginning to burn his skin.

“Please. Call me, Harry,” Dr. Styles - Harry - says with a soft smile. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

 

\--

 

It’s only been one week of treatment, so Louis’ symptoms don’t lesson over the next few days. He knows that’s not how it works, that immunotherapy isn’t a miracle cure that will fix him overnight, but he can’t help but be a little disappointed.

“You have to give it time,” Zayn reminds Louis on Thursday night after they’ve all done the dishes, pulling him into a cuddle on Louis’ sofa.

Louis grumbles in his throat and sinks into Zayn’s side, flinging an arm out for Liam on Zayn’s other side.

Liam holds out his hand and Louis grabs it, bringing it up to place on top of his head.  Liam obediently begins scratching Louis’ scalp.

“I just wanna feel better,” Louis whinges, even though Liam’s fingers feel really really good.

“We know,” Liam says patiently. “We know.”

 

\--

 

Recording with The Pastel wraps on Friday and Louis is quite pleased with how the rough cuts of the four track EP have turned out. They still need to be mixed, but they sound great so far, and a successful session requires a celebration. The band themselves are not yet of age, but Niall gives an enthusiastic “fuck yeh,” to Louis’ suggestion of pints.

“Mind if I invite Haz along?” Niall asks as they’re collecting their things for the final time.

“Who?”

“Harry. Or would that be weird for you, now that you’re like, a patient of his?’

“Nah, he’s more than welcome,” Louis responds, more excited that probably appropriate. He’s awful curious to see what Harry’s like outside of his office.

Niall beams and fires off a text to Harry whilst Louis sends a similar one to Zayn and Liam. Before he and Niall have left the studio, they have positive responses from all three of their friends.

It’s fairly early so Niall’s local isn’t busy yet, and Louis snags a booth in the corner as Niall goes to get their first round.

“Cheers, mate,” he says happily when Niall returns and slide a pint across the table to him.

He takes a long swallow of it and all is right with the world.

Zayn and Liam arrive first, hand in hand. Louis introduces them to Niall, and the three immediately strike up a conversation about the new Captain America film.

Louis loves it when his work friends and old friends get along.

He’s sitting with his back towards the door so when Niall’s face lights up and he lifts his hand to wave at someone, Louis has to turn around.

He should have put his pint down instead of drinking from it as he looked because the next thing he knows there’s beer in his lungs and Liam is thumping him on the back as he sputters.

Harry’s dressed far differently from the neatly pressed slacks, oxford shirts, and white lab coat Louis is familiar with. Not that he’d been expecting him to wear that to a pub, but his outfit is so drastically different and attractive it’s painful. Harry’s squeezed himself into black skinny jeans with holes in the knees, long long legs ending in scuffed brown suede boots. His ridiculously patterned shirt is unbuttoned to mid chest with the sleeves rolled up, the tattoos on his arms and torso out in the open. His hair’s pulled back into a bun again, and yes, Louis decides, the bun is definitely his favourite so far.  

“Great timing, Haz, we need a doctor,” Niall jokes, slipping out of the booth so Harry can slide in and sit next to the wall, across from Louis.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks Louis as he settles, eyes wide and full of genuine concern.

“Wrong pipe,” Louis says weakly, throat raw and voice hoarse.

He takes another sip of his pint to soothe the ache and flicks his gaze down and away from Harry’s face. Unfortunately his eyes catch on the moth tattooed at the top of Harry’s abs and for a split second Louis considers how pretty it would look covered in come, either his or Harry’s, he’s not picky.

“I wonder if all the hay fever related phlegm will now be beer flavoured,” Niall says thoughtfully.

Harry snorts and steals his nearly full, second pint.

“Not likely.”

Zayn is looking at Louis over Liam’s head, the look Louis knows all too well, the one that says you have got to be shitting me. Zayn always knows, more intuitive and observant than anyone Louis’ ever known, including his mother. And mothers are omnipotent beings.

“Is that based on actual medical science or just bullshit?” Niall asks, ignoring the fact that his pint is now being finished by someone else.

“For that to happen, Louis would need to inhale enough beer that would actually kill him from asphyxiation. Like drowning,” Harry says and sips Niall’s pint.

Louis’ cock twitches in his jeans. Intelligence has always been a turn on for him. Harry is not an exception to this rule.

He needs to lie down.

He settles for resting his forehead on the sticky table.

“Really, are you alright?” Harry asks, concern laced through his voice and Louis can picture it on his face as well.

“He’s just dramatic,” Zayn answers for him. “He needs a moment to come to terms with how close he just was to death.”

Louis gives him the two fingered salute as Niall cackles.

As the evening wears on and the empty pint glasses pile up, Louis finds himself becoming more and more loose-limbed, grin permanently plastered on his face. His body is pleasantly warm and his head is somewhat floaty.

When the nachos Niall ordered arrive he digs in gleefully, slapping Liam’s hand away when the other man tries to give him a plate.

“You’re going to get that everywhere,” Liam says forlornly.

“We’re in a pub. I’m sure this booth has seen worse,” Louis retorts around a mouthful of chip, cheese, and toppings.

Sure enough, a jalapeno falls off the half chip still in his hand, bouncing on the table in front of Harry.

Louis knows he must be drunk because he retrieves it and pops it into his mouth without any hesitance.  

Liam looks scandalised.

“The germs!”

“Won’t really hurt him,” Harry supplies, eyes on Louis as he chews.

Louis would quite like to keep him.

 

\--

 

Tuesday mornings become Louis’ standing appointment days at the immunology clinic. It’s usually Annie who administers the injections, but Harry always stops by to chat between patients as Louis waits the required half hour before leaving. It’s usually about random things, like Harry’s trip to the smoothie shop that morning, or a story about Louis’ sisters. But over the course of the next few weeks, Louis learns that Harry is from Holmes Chapel, has one elder sister, and Harry confirms the reason why he decided to study immunology.

Harry and Niall have also worked their ways into Louis’ little friend group, slotting in with him, Zayn, and Liam like they belonged there, and soon Louis can barely remember how it was without them. They all get on famously, whether they’re at the pub or all spread out on the floor of Zayn and Liam’s lounge, surrounded by bowls of different kinds of flavoured popcorn with a superhero film on the telly.

Louis’ not sure when Harry crossed the line from doctor to friend, but somewhere he did. The one thing Louis is sure of is that it makes his crush on both better and worse. Better, because it’s less awkward to have a thing for your friend instead of your doctor, but worse because now that he actually knows Harry and spends several days a week with him, he’s impossibly head over heels for him.  

Because Harry is everything Louis has always wanted in a partner. He’s kind, intelligent, wants a large family. But he also tells terrible jokes that make Louis laugh anyway, and always calls Louis on his shit. Harry makes Louis want to be better, the best he can be.

The fact that Harry doesn’t seem to feel the same is awful, despite Zayn’s insistence that Louis doesn’t know that for sure. Because Louis does. Louis isn’t stupid.

Just stupidly in love.

 

\--

  
  


By the end of July and Louis’ first round of treatment, his symptoms have lessened. Usually he’s still holed up inside his flat at the start of August, but this year he can handle being outside for several hours at a time with minimal sneezing as long as he takes his hay fever tablets.

It’s nothing short of incredible to him.

To celebrate, he organizes a picnic for the first weekend of August.

Louis sends out a text in their Whatsapp group - titled ‘pints? pints.’ in homage to Harry’s love of John Green and the rest of their love of going to the pub together - with the demand they join him at noon on Saturday.

zaynie poo - _I have marking to do._

irish  - _fucks sake zayner we will help you mark your quizzes._

leemo - _it rly is alot of mrking._

haz - _what do you need me to bring?_

Louis can always count on Harry.

Eventually, with the promise of having a marking party for Zayn’s quizzes after the picnic, everyone agrees and Louis doles out assignments for food items.

They’re meeting at Harry’s as he lives closest to the park, and Louis is the first to arrive. Harry buzzes him up and when he enters the flat he’s not surprised to find it smelling like freshly baked pastries. There was a reason Louis put Harry on dessert duty.

“Hazza! What did you bake me!” he shouts gleefully, dropping his picnic basket by the door and toeing off his shoes.

He finds Harry in the kitchen with an apron over his clothes and hair pulled back, frosting a batch of cupcakes. The whole place smells like chocolate and berries, and it takes all of Louis’ willpower not to to sneak a cupcake now.

Louis does, however, stick his finger into the bowl of pale pink frosting and then pops it into his mouth. He moans, eyes fluttering closed. Raspberry buttercream, to go on chocolate cupcakes. His favourite, and Harry’s frosting is absolutely perfect, soft and sweet on his tongue.

When he opens his eyes to tell Harry he’s done a good job, Harry’s openly staring at him, lips parted and eyes wide with incredulity. Maybe he shouldn’t have put his fingers in the frosting.

Nah, he should have.

“Y’alright, Haz?” Louis asks teasingly, cocking his head.

Harry purses his lips and carefully sets his piping bag gown on the counter before taking a step towards Louis.

Louis stands frozen, eyes locked on Harry’s and the fierce look of determination that’s now in them.

“I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to -” he chokes out, fearful he’s done something wrong, to truly upset his friend.  

But Harry shakes his head and moves closer until they’re standing toe to toe and Harry’s looking down at him like he wants to devour him. At the same time it’s fond and Louis is so confused by what’s happening.

Then Harry’s mouth is on his own, gentle and warm and for a long moment Louis can’t move, eyes wide open even though Harry’s have closed.

Harry begins to pull back when Louis doesn’t respond and Louis knows the apologies are going to come quick and that is not okay. Because this is certainly the most okay thing. Ever.

Louis lifts a hand to twine around the back of Harry’s neck and surges forward and up on his toes to get a better angle. The first press is hesitant, feeling it out, but then Harry’s making a surprised noise in the back of his throat and his  arms are wrapping around Louis and hauling him in closer, lips parting. Louis licks into his mouth, not surprised yet entirely surprised to find Harry tastes sweet, like he’d been tasting the frosting as he made it, with a vague hint of tea.

Harry kisses slow but intentionally, and Louis can appreciate it. God, can he appreciate it, as Harry’s teeth drag over his bottom lip and he can’t help but moan into his mouth.

Harry pulls back slightly and chuckles when Louis tries to follow his lips.

“Why’d you stop,” Louis asks indignantly, eyes opening to take in Harry. His cheeks are flushed, lips a rosy pink, his green eyes sparkling.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Harry says and presses another quick, chaste kiss to Louis’ lips. It’s earnest and full of purpose and other things Louis cannot begin to describe.  “But Niall will be here any minute and yes you kissed me back but I don’t know if this is something that you want to -”

“That first night at the pub I got beer in my lungs because I saw you,” Louis interrupts breathlessly. God, what an idiot. How could Harry think he couldn't possibly want this, want him?  “You walked in and you were so fucking beautiful I nearly died. Literally.”

Harry seems to shine like the sun, grin slowly spreading across his face and Louis wants so badly to kiss him again. He feels light, because he made Harry look like that.

“Really?”

Louis nods adamantly.

“Really.”

“I wanted to kiss you that first morning in my office, and it killed me because you were my patient,” Harry admits. “It still sort of does.”

“Is there another doctor at the centre who can oversee my treatment because if that’s a problem for you, I really really do not want it to be.”

Harry snorts and presses a kiss to the top of Louis’ head, arms tightening around him.

“I’ll talk to Kat on Monday.”

“You’ll still be the one who made me better,” Louis promises, nose pressed to Harry’s neck. “In every way possible.”

 

 


End file.
